


Impact

by Ameraka



Category: Adventures in Odyssey
Genre: Interrogation, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Prison, Self-Harm, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-20
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-02-05 12:49:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 11
Words: 15,243
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1819093
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ameraka/pseuds/Ameraka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After Sierra hands Gray over to her employer, Vivian, her desire for revenge gives her the excuse to employ the most horrific methods to break him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapters 1-6 occur between Repercussions and Collision. It tells what happens to Gray before the events of Collision. Chapters 7-9 switch to 1st person and occur during the first part of Generation, my latest story. I may add more chapters when I come up with more about Gray (his POV or Tasha's, who's dealing with him). This is obviously quite dark but I don't want to be too graphic, more dealing with his mindset and how he reacts to events. This really started as a way to explore where he's coming from in relation to the parallel stories and what's happening with Jason. If I come up with more from his POV I'll add more.   
> Tell me what you think!

On Day Number Five in the secret detention center, the guards, in crisp army uniform, carried Gray between them and dropped him in Interrogation Room #8. This time, there were no table and chairs, and no Vivian waiting to ask him questions. The guards didn't even stay to give him the daily dose of torture that was, admittedly, quite professional compared to most he'd run into.

Gray knelt on the cement floor for a few minutes, catching his breath. He was exhausted; in his cell, except for sporadic reprieves usually lasting no more than 15 minutes, lights flashed and loud music played in order to disorient him and make him lose his sense of time and reality. Sleep deprivation was a classic tactic of wearing a prisoner down, and it would have worked on any ordinary man. But Gray was not ordinary. He had conquered most fears, even his deep fear of being trapped. The trick was to hold onto hope—hope that a way of escape would present itself if he was diligent enough. And to hold onto the belief that no matter what they did to him, he would always be better than they were. Their tactics were weak compared with his resolve.

After Sierra had handed him over to Vivian, who had brought him in chains to this prison, they had told him that Will had been captured, probably hoping it would damage his morale. Why did they still need him, then? Well, to provide intelligence on the extent and details of Will's operation, and any other ops Gray had been involved in during his career.

In other words, they had permission to keep him here indefinitely. Gray had a suspicion that Vivian had lobbied to personally oversee his interrogation. She had said as much; to honor the memory of the man she loved, she wanted to rip all of Gray's secrets from him. She also wanted to make him pay for killing Elliot. Daily, as she asked him questions and the guards did her bidding, he witnessed the hatred seething beneath her professional veneer.

As much pressure as she put on him, Gray had given them nothing. He gained no small amount of satisfaction from the fact that he was so valuable that even Vivian had no idea of the extent of his value, of the secrets of both allies and enemies of the United States that he held locked in his mind.

Here in this dungeon of darkness he had to manufacture his own hope. Barely sleeping at night, only to be hauled in for interrogation and creative versions of coercion, was not his ideal way to pass the time. He'd rather be out on a mission. But this was his mission at the moment, such as it was. To keep all his former assignments locked in his head, and constantly keep a lookout for a way to escape.

Gray climbed to his feet, making it known to the powers-that-be who were watching from the cameras in the ceiling that they would not break him. And he waited, bracing himself for the introduction of a new tactic—which, he realized, might very well be leaving him in this room for an interminable amount of time.

Just as this thought crossed his mind, the door opened and two guards walked in, followed by two gray-clad prisoners, followed by four more guards. No Vivian with her pristine suit and auburn hair and fierce eyes this time.

The guards did not even look at him, though the prisoners did. One looked of Middle Eastern descent, not surprising considering they were in a secret detention center. The other was blond, muscular, tattoos covering most of his visible skin.

The Middle Easterner, even larger than the other man, knife scars lining his face and arms, looked Gray up and down in a brazenly appraising manner. That look sent shudders through Gray; he only just managed to keep his returning gaze steady, hoping the other had noticed no falter in his self-assurance.

But Gray had an inkling of what was going on, and he desperately hoped he was wrong. It was the one thing that might break him, and Vivian knew this. Gray had to applaud her ruthlessness, her disregard of common morality in pursuit of a goal, even for a motive as petty as revenge. But that didn't mean Gray was looking forward to what would happen next.

He would not just take it lying down, however.

The guards confirmed his suspicions; two unlocked the prisoners' hand- and ankle-cuffs, while the other four stood at strategic angles, guns poised for any wrong move. No doubt about it; these were some of the most dangerous men in this prison, excepting himself of course.

Then the guards backed out of the room, the door locking with a click, leaving Gray alone with his fellow prisoners.

The man with the scar—Scar, Gray would call him for brevity's sake—stepped forward, rubbing his wrists which looked raw from the cuffs cutting into them. A foot in front of Gray, he grinned down at him, showing white teeth, some of them broken. "Yes, you will do," he said in a strong Arabic accent. Despite his scars and size, he was well-built and handsome in a way, although there was a gleam in his eyes that suggested insanity. "I finally get to get my hands on an American. You look as soft as most Americans, although that might not be a bad thing in this case."

"Hey," said the blond man in a southeastern US accent. Gray would call him Tattoo. "Keep your slurs to yourself, would you?"

Scar cocked his head, looked askance at Tattoo. "I do not even know why you are in here."

"That makes two of us. They say I'm a traitor—I say I was just doin' my duty. But if you mean why I'm in this room, I'm here to get my freedom."

Scar rounded on Tattoo. "They promised you your freedom for this?"

"Yeah. I thought, why not? Even if it's just another trick, might as well take what fun I can get." He grabbed Gray's arm.

Gray kicked out, hitting Tattoo in the shin. The blond man let go with a yelp, but his face did not reflect defeat, but savage glee, as if this was a game.

A kick in Gray's stomach knocked him to the floor. Scar, leering down at him, pressed a boot on his chest. It felt like his lungs had collapsed; he struggled to breathe.

"This is how you subdue a target," said Scar. Then he kicked Gray in the ribs once. Twice. Pain shot through him. Before he could recover, Gray found himself dangling in the air, one large hand like a vice grip around his throat. Dark eyes glittering with eagerness, Scar slammed Gray against the wall. He struggled, but it did no good. Just when he thought he would pass out from lack of oxygen, Scar hurled him forward onto the floor. Gray landed on his injured knee; he gasped. Too late to hold it back. He had betrayed his weakness.

Tattoo stepped down hard on Gray's knee. Gray clenched his fingernails into his palms, bit his tongue to keep from screaming.

"Let's see if he's got any other injuries," said Tattoo, grabbing Gray by the collar. He ripped it open, buttons popping off. "Look at this, Azzam. They sure did a number on him."

"Hm," said Azzam. –'Scar.' "The soldiers are usually more careful not to leave marks."

Tattoo brushed a cut with his finger. "Oh, well, makes it more interesting this way." He cupped Gray's chin in his hand. Gray pulled away. Tattoo laughed.

Gray tried to gather his energy, knowing he should be able to put up more of a fight. But after Sierra's and Vivian's interrogations, the past five days of limited food and sleep, even he had been worn down. There is just so much the human body can take before it affects the mind as well…No matter how finely tuned that mind and body is…

Tattoo tugged the remains of the shirt off Gray's shoulders, a thoughtful look on his face.

Scar stepped beside him. "He's mine."

"You can have him after I'm done with him."

"I was the one to subdue him. He would probably have taken you down otherwise."

"Yeah, right. I—"

Scar swore in Arabic and kicked Tattoo in the back, taking him out of the picture. He picked up Gray by the arm, pushed him against the wall, body locking him in place. Scar grinned, his face eclipsing Gray's vision with darkness.

G

The light hurt his eyes, beat down on his skin, burning him, exposing him. He tried to crawl away from it, but there was no corner to hide in.

Blaring music assaulted his ears, all the more agonizing because he detected notes of beauty in it, which was a mockery in this place.

He writhed in pain, only causing more pain and convulsions that tossed him against the hard floor and wall. Somewhere in the back of his mind—what was left of it—he knew he was in shock, he needed treatment. But there was only the merciless glare of the light and somewhere beyond, someone was watching, laughing, delighting in his agony.

And the memories kept him company, as demons might. Nightmares flashed across his mind, pain, worse than he had ever known, brutality mixed with a parody of tenderness, caress of calloused hands that slapped him the next moment, pressing into him, eating into him, he had never known the meaning of the word evil, that had only been a figment of

Humanity shattered, just a piece of torn meat for others' amusement, harsh laughter, struggle, resolve slipping—what was there? No questions to anchor to, just senseless pride, pride in what?

This naked form beaten to nothing, burned inside out

Where am I? 

Endless pain, no there is no meaning in that.

I am—I am—Gray the agent who has won a thousand battles who has defeated all foes, but that Gray has dissolved, was no more than a mask…

…of whoever this is. I knew something, once. I knew myself but

Shame. He burned with it, and somewhere inside, he knew he had broken. He would tell them everything, if they asked him, for to betray Gray was to betray no one of consequence—Gray was merely a fabrication that hid the person capable of becoming this—something less than human, a creature trying to hide in the dark but failing.

He tried to recall past hope—anything—but all he remembered was harsh voices, fists, mockery. Who was the last person to touch him with kindness? He had shunned all human connections for pride's sake, for the sake of being the best—no attachments, no sympathy, no weakness.

Ha! He would laugh, if he could. This was weakness. No love, in the end, only the emptiness of hatred, brutality, lust, indifference.

Except—

One memory—recent?—of a touch that helped instead of hurt. No intention to harm him later. Astonishment blazed into him as the face appeared against the darkness of his mind, a face that belonged to a man he himself had tortured without mercy—

Jason.

A man who had hurt him—understandably so—but who had, inexplicably, set him free with words of forgiveness.

A cold tear slipped from Gray's eye to fall to the cement. A sharp ache pierced his heart; he wished to escape this feeling but at the same time longed to embrace it—for it meant that someone, even if that someone was an enemy, had given him hope. Hope to escape? He had no illusions he would escape this place, except through death. But Jason's single act of compassion shone brightly in his mind, letting him know that something good existed, somewhere in the universe, even if he could never again be free of the darkness he had chosen.


	2. Chapter 2

Tasha stepped into the cell. She recalled the last time she'd visited Gray in the cell in Odyssey—she'd slammed her pistol across his temple. Afterward, she'd regretted her lack of control, and felt guilty for her sense of gratification for making him feel at least some of the pain that Jason had felt.

This time, she almost felt pity for him. She had to remind herself that this was the man who had mercilessly tortured Jason. He didn't look dangerous now; he hardly looked like the same man.

Gray lay in the cell, curled up in the corner, facing the wall. His prison uniform was tattered and dirty, his hair long and unkempt. He was thin, and bruises laced his arm.

Could this really be Gray, the infuriatingly smug, self-assured, immaculately dressed man she'd seen only months before?

She took a step forward, leaned down to touch his shoulder. He flinched, but his blue eyes stared straight forward vacantly.

What have they done to him? she wondered. Is there anything left? I need something to be left. My assignment needs a good lead—and this man supposedly has intel on my target. 

She was tempted to try to shake him out of his catatonic state. But she doubted that tactic would be very effective.

She'd have to coax his psyche out into the open somehow. She rebelled against treating this man with the care and respect he didn't deserve. But she had to force herself to act professionally, and keep her personal life compartmentalized. He didn't have anything to do with Jason. He was a source of intel, nothing more.

She knelt in front of him. Touched his arm. His skin was cold.

"Gray," she said.

He didn't even blink.

"Starr," she said, using his most recent alias.

Still no movement. He just stared ahead, blank, unseeing.

She stepped over to the guard by the door.

"How do they usually get information out of him?"

The guard shrugged. "Drugs, mostly. You could try hitting him a few times, but that doesn't work as well as it used to."

Disgust rose in Tasha's chest at how matter-of-fact this man talked about hurting Gray. She had reason to hurt him—but this was business. There were better ways of getting information than torture. Especially for one who had been tortured.

"I would like to take custody of this man."

"I am not sure that…"

"I'll have to talk to your superiors."

His fragile psyche needed to be mended—at least patched up—before he'd be a credible source of intel. She couldn't afford to wait, but she'd have to tread carefully in order not to drive him even further inside himself than he already was.


	3. Chapter 3

Gray sat in the hospital room on a bed. A doctor stood beside him, asking him questions. The man's voice sounded muffled, indistinct; faces, shapes, moved in a blur around him. The more he ignored them, the less it would hurt. Stay inside this cocoon, and don't let anything outside of it matter. Not even his body mattered—the body they could break and violate any time they chose. It was better not to move, not to think—anything that would block out the pain and humiliation.

A light shone into his eyes, piercing his dark comfort zone. Pain shot through him at the prospect of facing the outside world; he turned away.

"Oh, he's in there," said the doctor. "I doubt there is any actual nerve damage. There's a lot more to his case than what the CIA told us; the torture they admitted to was too mild to warrant a reaction this severe. But without more information about what happened, we aren't going to be able to help him. I'll have to do a complete examination, because I doubt he'll be able to tell me anytime soon. Even then, many of his wounds have healed, and I may never be able to know the whole story without his input."

"But if you do find out what got him in this state, it will be easier to treat him. Get him out of this so he can answer my questions." The voice—a woman's this time, somewhere in the shadows—jolted him. He'd heard it before—and it sent a shiver of fear down his spine. Not the same all-consuming fear he felt when Vivian came to gloat over his degradation, but a similar kind of fear….

"I'll try to get him to that point. But there's no guarantee."

"Do what you have to do."

The woman turned, and Gray glimpsed dark hair falling over a straight back, an almost military bearing, strong calves beneath a dark skirt, high heels, a firm click, click, click as she walked away—

Tasha. Someone from Before, and another one of them. They all wanted answers—they all wanted to hurt him. Why did Tasha fill him with more dread than the others? It wasn't like she was Vivian.

But something told him she was like Vivian. That she would want revenge for something Gray had done….

Somewhere in his past, Gray had hurt the man she loved. She would respond in kind.

Perhaps she had already started, because firm hands removed his clothes and began poking and prodding him, provoking pain from old wounds, threatening to break open his carefully constructed cocoon so the pain would crush him, drowning him in waves of agony—

Light stabbed his eyes. He thrashed around, trying to snatch back the dark peace of nothingness he'd gained at great cost. To no avail; the pain released from deep inside him—he screamed, lashing out at anything that tried to tear into him—

The hands withdrew. Gray laid back, gasping for breath, tears streaming down his cheeks. He shook with sobs, shivering in shock like that first time, that first day—

A hand lay on his shoulder. He flinched.

"Gray," said a voice, low and gentle. Tasha. "Look at me."

To look at her would be to face what she had in store for him. He continued to look at the cool blankness of the white wall beside him.

A hand grabbed his chin. Turned it toward her.

Dark eyes caught his, intense, shadowed, and yet—no burning hatred. There was anger there but it was muted, as if under restraint. Glossed over with something else….impersonal interest, perhaps? He couldn't quite read it enough to tell how bad this would turn out for him.

"I have been able to make a deal, Gray," she said. "If you help us, we will take you out of the secret detention center. We will prosecute you under the law. You know what this means, don't you? No more torture. A cell in a normal jail. And maybe, someday, a chance to be free again."

"Free?"

"It's not my favorite part of this idea, but I'm willing to risk the possibility because lives are at stake. I thought we could try another method besides torture, since we seem to have exhausted that option."

Freedom. The word sent thrills through him. He could hardly comprehend a life beyond these walls; freedom from Vivian was enough for him. To be in the legal system, instead of being a nonperson who could be abused at any time and in any manner….

Hope sprang up in his heart—a strange, alien feeling.

But—

A shadow fell over the sudden patch of sunlight.

They had played with him so many times before. Toyed with his mind, giving him snatches of hope—only to tear them away with laughter of cruelty.

She was lying. She had to be. Nothing good would ever come into his life again; only the last safety zone inside his mind could protect him from assault.

She continued to speak, but he shut out her words, putting up a wall to keep out the lies that attacked him with their false promise of hope.


	4. Chapter 4

Tasha stepped into the lobby of the Agency hospital. She’d just come from interrogating a man who knew the terrorist funder Khalid Ramon, and it turned out he didn’t know as much as he’d said. He’d been full of rumors but few substantial facts. She sighed and leaned her head in her hand, her elbow on the counter. This case had hit a dead end. Ramon knew how to cover his tracks; he was one of the best she’d ever encountered.   
There was another possibility to get someone on the ground in Paraguay, but she hesitated to even consider it, at least until she found out if Gray would be of use or not….  
Footsteps neared. She looked up to see Doctor Abrams approach. “Good morning,” she said, although she hadn’t slept the night before, and so it didn’t feel like a morning at all, much less a good one. “How is our patient?”  
“He’s…well, we’ve mostly kept out of his way, like you requested. Gave him a checkup every day, gave him food and anything he asked for within reason. He’s still barely responsive, although he seems to have improved a little.”  
“Good. Has he said anything of interest?”  
“Nothing of bearing on the case, although last night he did say thank you.”  
“Thank you?”  
“When the nurse brought in his food.”  
“Hm. Well, I’m not sure what it means, although it could mean that he’s starting to believe our intentions aren’t to hurt him. I’ll have to see for myself.”  
“One more thing,” said Abrams. “After he started going ballistic on us and we had to restrain him to examine him, among his other injuries, we found evidence of….” The doctor sighed. “I know he wasn’t the most upstanding citizen—I’ve seen parts of his file. How he tortured others without mercy.”  
Tasha flinched; Abrams had no idea how close to home that hit.   
“But there are some things that no one should have to endure. No wonder he was basically catatonic.”  
“What happened?”  
“As far as we can tell, he was sexually assaulted.”  
She couldn’t comprehend it for a moment. “Raped?”  
“Yes. Raped.”  
Her stomach turned over. “I can hardly believe even the CIA would go that far.”  
“I know. But the evidence is there. And it makes sense, after we’ve seen how he’s reacted, especially to being undressed and touched.”  
Tasha swallowed. “Well, this does put a different spin on things—but now I can figure out how to proceed. I don’t know if it would be a good idea to get his thoughts on what happened?”  
“You could try. It’s always better to get it out in the open rather than keep it bottled up. It could help heal him.”  
Perhaps, to gain his trust, she’d tell him about…that, although she dreaded dredging up the old memories…especially to someone like him. She hated the fact that she had this in common with him, of all things…but she also couldn’t help but feel sympathy. He was evil, but some methods should be off-limits, no matter what the stakes. The inhumanity of it angered her. We are supposed to be the good guys.  
A nurse brought a tray of food; Tasha took it and stepped into the room.   
Gray was standing by the window. When she entered, he turned toward her, his body rigid, as if ready to take flight like a wild animal.   
She stepped toward the table beside the bed, and set the tray onto it. Then she walked toward him, trying to be as nonthreatening as possible.   
He backed away, fear in his eyes.   
She stopped. Would asking him questions even be possible today?   
“It’s all right. I’m not going to hurt you.” She took another step toward him, but he backed up until he pressed against the window.   
He looked more like a scared little boy than a sociopathic killer. She needed to find out the information before the plot to bomb the US embassy was carried out, but she wouldn't get anywhere if he withdrew again, just when he was beginning to recover.   
She sat down at the table. Lifted up the cover off the tray to reveal a pile of sausages with two eggs and a piece of toast. It smelled wonderful, especially since, Tasha realized, she hadn't had any breakfast, except for several cups of coffee.   
“Do you want something to eat?” she asked.   
He didn’t move. Just stood by the window, watching her. When she tried to catch his eyes, he dropped his gaze to the floor.   
“Maybe later, then.” She put the lid back on the tray. And took out her notebook and pen and began to write some notes in code in order to try to focus her thoughts. The next time she looked up, she saw him looking through the window, the broad lawn of the Agency hospital gleaming under the sun, the trees at its edge framing Washington, DC, which shimmered in the morning haze.   
“You have a nice view,” she said.   
He looked back at her. The sunlight illuminated his face, highlighting the scar down the side of his cheek, making his hair look almost white. With his hair cut, his face clean shaven, he almost looked like the Gray she knew, except there was none of the hard, cool superiority. Just a look of suspicion, superimposed on the fear and tension that had gripped him since she had stepped in. According to the doctor, he had begun to recover, become responsive; she wondered if it was her presence in particular that frightened him. Of course, he knew she was an agent here to interrogate him. And the last time she’d seen him, she’d hurt him; he probably expected more of the same.   
It was true she had a personal history with Gray, but she had enough distance now to keep herself in check. She could see him as a subject, made easier by the fact that he seemed more like a victim than a torturer. Although there was something inside her that was gratified to see the scar on his face—the fading bruises along his arm—at least he’d gotten some of what he’d given.   
She shoved that feeling back down. Besides, she wouldn’t wish rape on anyone. Except—the men who had—  
No. Focus on him. Approaching him obliquely, so he won’t be spooked. “Your breakfast is getting cold,” she said. She lifted the lid off of the tray of food again. She was tempted to take some of it herself; her mouth watered just looking at it. But taking it would defeat the purpose of helping him trust her.  
He looked away again. His hands were clenched at his sides.   
Tasha was used to interrogations, often of hostile subjects, but she was at a loss when a subject was afraid to talk to her. She must have been on the right track when she’d offered him freedom for his cooperation—who would want to be trapped where he had been?   
“Gray,” she said. “I hope you know all of this is my doing. I could just as easily take it away; put you back where you were. But I won’t. Not until I’ve given you a chance to earn your freedom.”  
“Freedom,” he said, in a barely audible voice, laced with bitterness.   
She took a step forward. He stood his ground, but looked ready to leap away at any second. “I can keep you from going back to the detention center. I want to help you, Gray.”  
“Why—“ he said, in a hoarse voice, as if barely used—or used for too much screaming.   
Silence. Just the sound of the faucet dripping in the bathroom, and the sound of muffled footsteps past the door.   
He cleared his throat. “Why would you want to help me? I h-hurt him.”  
Anger flared in Tasha’s chest. “Jason. His name is Jason.”  
“Jason.” There was a strange tone of reverence in his voice. And regret? Tasha hoped he regretted every second he’d been with Jason, touched him, given him pain. He had more than paid for it, but at the same time, it would never be enough. The pain of the man that Tasha loved could never be repaid; each drop of blood could never be replenished.   
Tasha realized she was glaring at Gray, who’d shrunk back against the glass, his hands lifted as if to protect himself. She took a step back, reined herself in. Not personal. Lives are at stake. The moment that I let him get to me, let my feelings take over, I’ve lost.   
“But we’re not here to talk about him,” said Tasha. “I am here to help you because we have mutual interests. You were of no use to me in the shape you were in. You could barely answer any questions. Now that you can talk to me, I want to know if you will.”  
He lowered his head. For a moment, he didn’t speak. Then he said, “What do you want to know?”  
“I want to know about someone you worked with in South America. Khalid Ramon.”


	5. Chapter 5

 

The past soaked into him. Washing away his fear.

The jungle. The humid heat that made his clothes cling to his skin. The bone-white adobe villa, shadowed with shifting palm leaves. The gun at his hip, its smooth surface a finger's-twitch away. He could feel his muscles, finely toned, rippling as he paced beneath the balcony.

Back when he had autonomy. When he had freedom. When he had the ability to perform any mission, no matter how difficult.

Even with that…incident, he still looked back on working for Ramon with fondness, a near-perfect mission, which challenged him, pushed him to his limits.

He felt fear, but the delicious kind of fear of reminiscing a thrilling assignment.

He looked at Tasha as she sat on the chair across from him. Fear sizzled across his skin, knowing that she could hurt him if she chose. Fear defined his existence now; he could barely comprehend a life without it. His missions seemed like fragments of dreams.

But the one with Ramon—that was still inexplicably vivid, as if it were yesterday. As if he could slip right back into it. He'd take autonomy any day over this endless prison, this pale life laced with pain.

Another reason to tell her what he knew. To remember, as much as he could, meant forgetting the present, at least for a little while. And delaying his return to the cell that haunted his every thought.

"Ramon," he said, his voice soft, hoarse, as if there was no strength left in him to speak. "What do you want to know?"

"The CIA said that you mentioned him while they were interrogating you about another case."

"I don't remember that…." All he remembered was wanting to make it stop.

"You said that you worked for Ramon. Is that true?"

"Yes."

"What did you do for him?"

"I was an enforcer, basically. I protected his assets. When things went wrong, I went in to clean up the mess."

"So…you would have seen a lot of his operations."

"I did."

Tasha leaned forward. "Would you have any evidence of his ties to terrorist organizations?"

"He tried to keep his hands clean with everything, but especially with that."

"Anything that you could tell me would be helpful."

"A lot of his sales could have been to terrorists, but he made it a point not to ask questions. Usually he worked through middlemen."

"Did you ever come in direct contact with them?"

"I was his troubleshooter, so I sometimes did. But we were careful—we always worked with code names, and I only dealt with the leader."

"Could you tell me any names? What they looked like."

He gave her names, dates, as many details as he could, because the longer he could draw this out, the longer he could stay here. He had a room with a bed. He had food. He wasn't getting tortured or...humiliated. He didn't want to make it seem like he was stalling, either; soon he'd run out of information. He could lie, but she'd likely detect it, especially since he'd lost his ability to lie convincingly—they'd wracked all disingenuousness out of him. Truth was the only language they understood, and even then, they didn't always believe the truth.

He enjoyed talking to Tasha—mostly because she wasn't trying to hurt him. She was detached and yet direct. She was relentless in her questions, but she let him have a break to eat and rest. The part of him that was still an agent himself appreciated the fact that she didn't let personal feelings get in the way of her job, and the part of him that barely remembered his old self appreciated the fact that she didn't bring up Jason's torture. Gray could barely remember his motive for doing so. The only thing that was vivid in his memory was Jason forgiving him, releasing him—a strange, mystifying event that kept him perpetually puzzled. He could not understand why Jason would do such a thing; for instance, Gray forgiving Vivian and the men she'd unleashed on him was unfathomable.

Another thing he appreciated was the fact that she was letting him reminisce. For a little while, he could forget he was this degraded creature that tried to make his consciousness as small as possible, so they couldn't find it to rip into. He was—in shadow form at least—a freelance operative, the best in the business, who could spin lies, shoot, interrogate, kill, with expertise. He could relive his glory days.

But even though she encouraged him, he could tell she was disappointed with his information. It was true it wasn't very specific. It had been twelve years ago, and it wasn't likely there'd be actionable intel.

"It was a longshot that there'd be any relevant information after all this time," she said. "You have given me some good leads, though. We'll check them out."

Dread seized him. Had he told her enough to satisfy her—or would she send him back to the detention center?

Tasha rose. "Thank you for your cooperation."

"Will—" He couldn't get the words out.

"What is it?"

"Will—will I have to go back?"

A ghost of a smile fled across her mouth. "I won't go back on my word."

"Thank you." Flooded with gratitude, he held out his hand.

She looked at his hand, disdain flitting across her face.

 _Of course_ , thought Gray. Jason. _She keeps her word, doesn't treat me badly, but treating me like an equal is going too far. I understand._

She stepped out the door, phantoms of his past flitting across his mind.

Hours—or days?—later, the door creaked open. He sat up, the room bathed in sunset glow; he didn't know if he'd been asleep, or merely spaced out. That happened a lot—missing time. Huge spaces of blankness, in which he didn't feel or think.

Someone walked inside. Even before he saw her, fear shivered down his skin at her appearance—her very movements were familiar—as familiar as death.

Darkness shrouded his mind. He shrank back against the wall.

Her pale, pitiless face turned toward him. "This certainly doesn't look like an interrogation cell," she said to a white-coated figure in the shadows by the door. "Are you trying to _comfort_ one of our nation's enemies into giving up intel?"

"He has been recovering," said the doctor.

"He looks recovered enough to me. I'll take him back now."

Terror blazed across Gray's mind. His throat felt like a hand was closing around it. He struggled to breathe, but there was no anchor to reality except her cutting voice—her cruel truth.

"But he's not ready—Tasha will—"

"I understand she's gotten all she needs from him. I have more that I need to ask him—in my own manner." She shot a meaningful look toward Gray. Pangs flashed across his chest and arms—echoes of the torture she'd ordered.

"She promised him a trial in exchange for his information."

"I haven't heard of this. She must have been leading him on. Since when do we keep our promises to traitors?" She stepped toward Gray. He tried to move, but all he could manage was trying to make himself smaller, cowering down on the bed, shutting her out. Embracing darkness, shadows, oblivion.

"He's in our custody," said the doctor.

"As I understand it, he is on loan. He is the property of the CIA."

"But—I can't in good conscience let you—"

She swept a dismissive hand. "Conscience! There's no room for conscience in this game. He certainly has none. And don't you give me that argument about stooping to his level. We're talking about the greater good. As a doctor, you're used to compassion. But some people deserve none."

A hand on Gray's shoulder. He flinched. A laugh cut the air. She grasped his wrist, and slammed cold steel onto it. Then she yanked his arm behind his back, cuffing him tight.

"Get up," she said.

No. He wasn't going back. Defiance threaded through him, born from the sliver of hope he'd been given in this place.

"Get up!" she shouted.

Something cold and hard pressed against his neck.

Then, blinding white pain, lancing through him like lightning. He writhed, and a scream resounded against the walls.

White fibers of carpet beneath him. Red droplets soaking into it, directly beneath his mouth—he must've bitten his tongue. Sure enough, pain throbbed through it, along with residual electric shocks through his muscles. A hand grabbed his arm and dragged him across the floor. All resistance vanished, he was barely aware of anything but the pain.

He was going back to the interrogation cell. Sickness seized him at this realization. But there was nothing he could do about it but retreat into his mind, block out the pain, become nothing again.


	6. Chapter 6

Gray lay at Vivian's feet, unmoving. A twinge of sympathy shot through Tasha's heart—but it had no bearing on anything, except where it helped her achieve her objective. She stood in front of Vivian, blocking the hallway.

"I need him," said Tasha.

"You've gotten what you can for your mission," said Vivian. "I think I have more I can squeeze out of him."

"I understand what he did to you—"

"You understand nothing."

"More than you think. But he needs a different approach. Besides, I have an active case he can help me with. All you have are dead cases, fragments that the CIA barely cares about. He can help me save lives."

"He's told you all he can."

"That he knows. But he will find out more for me."

Vivian gave a mocking laugh. "What can this wreck do?"

"You might be surprised. Anyway, he's out of your hands. He will accomplish more through my methods than your torture ever did." _And rape_ , she thought, but she didn't want to assault Gray with that word just yet.

"You can't repair such a piece of trash. He's only fit to be broken, and then broken again, and again."

A maniacal glint shot across her eyes, and Tasha thought, _You are the one that's broken. Somehow your mind has been fractured—by Gray's murder of the one you love, or letting yourself get twisted by torturing him…._ Tasha was glad she hadn't let her hatred of Gray take over her life. Perhaps she would have been more abusive toward him if she hadn't seen him in such a pathetic condition. But she liked to think she wouldn't have let herself lose control. Vivian was free to choose her assignments, to be free of this; instead she let this man consume her life—

_But then, what would I have done if he'd killed Jason? It might have destroyed my mind—considering how much I still love him._

Tasha presented Vivian with her trump card: the orders from the DCI himself that this mission had priority, and the authorization that Tasha had gotten earlier that day for her plan to use Gray for her mission. Tasha had Gray reinstalled in his room, then left to get some coffee. It was going to be another long night.

Tasha stood at the floor-to-ceiling window, watching the sunset turn the Capitol blood red. She was giving Gray some space; he hadn't moved from his place on the bed where they'd laid him.

Vivian's intrusion had given Tasha a serious setback. He seemed to be almost as unresponsive as before. Not good, considering her plan hinged on him doing much more than answering questions. The attorney general had granted her request that he have a trial on the condition that he provide more actionable intel. The only way to get active intel was to put Gray on the front lines. Which meant he would have to go back to Ramon in person and work for him.

How would she get him to be a functioning human being—not only that, but be the agent he once was, at least enough to pass the scrutiny of a man he'd worked for before?

He'd have to heal quite a bit—and to do that, she'd have to get him to tell about his trauma. Get it out in the open.

_Perhaps I'll tell him about…what happened to me_ _after all. It might be good for me to talk about it, after all these years. Even to him._

She'd been debriefed, back then—but had never really gone into detail. Her case officer hadn't asked questions; he'd been kind enough to realize she didn't need to relive it so soon, especially since the incident didn't have much bearing on the case. After that, she had shoved it deep down in a corner of her mind, where she kept all the worst aspects of her missions. But cutting off the trauma didn't get rid of it…and she'd lost a part of herself; she wasn't sure if she could ever get it back, or whether telling anyone, especially Gray, could help her.

She turned to Gray. He lay curled up on the bed, one hand lying on the covers.

She stepped over to him, sat down on the bed. "Gray, you're safe now. I won't let her take you ever again. I made a deal with the Attorney General and—" She stopped. There was no way to know if he was hearing her.

She ventured to touch his shoulder. He flinched, looked up at her, his eyes wide with fear.

"I won't hurt you. I'm sorry she took you—that shouldn't have happened. You're our asset and we're not letting you out of our sight again."

_Maybe that's the wrong way to put it,_ she thought. _I've had to think of him as an "asset" in order to compartmentalize what he did, keep my emotions in check. But he's a human being and I'll have to treat him like one in order for him to recover. He has to somehow be confident enough to go on a mission._

She feared meeting the real Gray, after he was repaired; she feared either lashing out at him or worse, betraying Jason by being overly compassionate toward Gray. Both would be losing sight of her professionalism. To do her job, she'd have to open her heart to the man who'd tortured Jason remorselessly.

Perhaps she'd just get it over with. Rip off the Band-Aid.

She went out and brought back a glass of water. Set it on the table, and leaned over the bed, sliding her arm around Gray' shoulder, then pulling him into a sitting position. He sat there, still, exactly where she'd put him. Then, she picked up the glass and lifted it to his lips.

He didn't move.

"You have to drink," she said. Then reconsidered. "No, you don't have to do anything. But it would help you feel better. You're still dehydrated." She tipped the glass up—a little water dribbled over his mouth, onto his shirt.

"Come on, it's not like you're an invalid," she said, already letting impatience get the best of her. "You're alive, Gray. You have a future ahead of you, you just have to see—"

She stopped. Reasoning with him wouldn't work; she knew by experience. When…it had happened, she hadn't felt like she had a future. True, she hadn't actually been raped…but what— _he_ —had done had been a deep violation. The utter helplessness as she'd been chained in the cell, unable to move—the horror of being touched intimately by someone who only wanted to hurt and humiliate her…wanting to die….

For him, the ordeal had been much longer, more drawn out—the continual threat of it happening again… No wonder he didn't want to emerge into the real world. And no wonder he didn't trust her. She'd given him hope, and let it be crushed by Vivian—why not again? She had to let him know she wasn't here to manipulate him, squeeze whatever she could out of him. She had his best interests in mind, not only hers and the Agency's.

She set the glass down on the table, sat back and sighed. Perhaps, if there was a way to get through to him, she had to try it. It couldn't be a bare recitation of facts, either; to go _there_ would be to blur the lines between the professional world and her private life. To do her job, she had to let go of rigid professionalism; she had to give Gray genuine empathy, sharing the deepest parts of her soul.

A knot twisted her heart. She pushed past it, and said, "I had something happen to me once. It obviously isn't like what happened to you, but I know what it feels like to have your human dignity torn apart…

"In 1989, I was undercover in Iran. I had a media pass, but all the same, I was restricted in my movements by the Iranians' suspicions of Westerners. I was a young agent, remember. And impatient with how little I could discover. So one day, I decided to wear a hijab, and go where a Western woman couldn't. I knew how to wear one—or thought I did. I might have gotten away with it, if not for an overzealous policeman. He saw me in the market, arrested me for public indecency because my skirt didn't touch the ground. And once in the station, he found out that he had an American in his hands—and handed me off to the intelligence service.

"They took me to Evin Prison. Interrogated me…and they didn't hold back much." She sighed, the memories washing over her. Empathizing did not have to mean breaking down…she had to maintain some composure despite the overwhelming feelings. It was the second time she'd been tortured, and it was probably the most brutal. She still had the scars….

"I gave them nothing. So they broke my leg, my wrist—they burned my feet and—" She pulled down the collar of her shirt a little, showing the ragged mark. "I don't see how he could have been attracted to the wreck I was. Although some men like their women beaten down—I've known others like that." _Robert_ , she thought, although she forced herself not to go off on that slightly less unpleasant tangent. "It was…the fact I was in his power. He could do with me what he liked. And I was an American. He wanted my humiliation.

"He wasn't the lead interrogator—more like his assistant. Kind of went off the rails a bit sometimes, when the lieutenant was gone. This time, he came in alone, without the guards. I was chained to the wall. He—" She could see it—could smell the dank scent of dirt and broken humanity that festered in those cells _. Keep going,_ she told herself, although all she wanted to do was turn back—forget it ever happened.

"He started touching me; I tried to ignore it. Then—he kissed me. I hate to even call it a kiss…it was just him taking what he wanted—when such things were furthest from my mind. I could barely think straight because of the pain, but all I knew was, I didn't want this to happen. So I fought back. He hit me, hard. I was hanging there and he—took out his knife and cut my shirt. With everything I had left I fought him—but the knife—it cut into me." She touched her stomach, near the scar. "I was barely conscious but he started—putting his hands on me. Hurting me."

She could still see him, through the haze of pain, above her—feel his calloused hands pressing into her—his harsh laugh—wanting to crush her, possess her—

"He would have done it—but his commander came in, saw I was nearly passed out, and took me to the infirmary to get patched up for more interrogation. But then, the NSA negotiated for my release.

"Since then, I tried to ignore it, because he didn't go as far as he planned. But it still…." She shook her head. "The shame of it—how even now I can feel his hands, and the horror as he—took from me what I would never have given. The fear of what he'd do—the smell of the prison, of my own blood—the complete helplessness and not being able to stop someone who wanted to degrade me in every way possible. I don't think….because I haven't acknowledged it as 'real' rape, I haven't come to terms with it, and….I'm sorry. I don't want this to turn into some therapy session for me. I just wanted you to know that, because—I can't know how you feel—but I know something about…torture, humiliation."

She hazarded a look at Gray. His face was pale. Horror showed deep in his shadowed eyes.

"I won't take you back to the cell," she said, "because I have an idea of what it was like for you—and no one should have to endure that."

Shock struck Gray's heart as he realized the implications of her words. "You…know about—?" he asked.

She nodded.

He turned from her, unable to face the shame that someone else knew. At least before, he could pretend it hadn't happened, at least for a little while, in the small dark refuge in his mind.

It could be worse. She could be laughing at him, instead of sympathizing. Why had she done it? Why had she shared such an intimate story with the one she should hate?

But now someone knew, at least in a way, how he felt—and did not want to grind their boot into his wounds. Somehow—inexplicably—like Jason forgiving him—she wanted to help him. She, who by all rights should be his enemy, had ripped open one of her old wounds for his sake. Why? It didn't really matter. It only mattered that he had an ally who would keep him away from more of Vivian's torture.

He didn't know if he'd ever tell her about what had happened to him—but he owed her something, at least. He reached out a hand—tentatively—his hand touching the side of her hand on the bed. That was as much voluntary touch as he could manage, for now. He looked at her dark, sympathetic eyes, and said, "Tasha—"

"Yes, Gray?"

"I'm sorry."

"Me too." She gave him a smile, and a tear slipped onto her cheek.

With her tear, something in him ripped apart—and he lay down onto the bed, and wept. She laid her hand on his shoulder, telling him it would be all right.

And eventually, she told him her plan. It would give him back his dignity, and some semblance of freedom. It wouldn't be easy—but he would be shedding his past, denying his power to beat him into the dust.

He had hope. Hope to someday be free. Not necessarily physically—but free of the darkness that still pulled him down, despite the light that pierced it, like sunrays breaking through a storm.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part switches to 1st person and it occurs during the first part of Generation, my latest story. It will then tie in with it in the middle.

I can’t help but think of myself as a despicable creature. For not fighting harder. For not dying before I let this happen to me. For letting myself be captured in the first place. For not being the strong person I thought I was. For being weak, letting them trample over me, crush me, laugh at me. Stab themselves into me.  I’m not the great agent I thought I was—no, I’m just worth being trampled on, because I let it happen.

Weak things deserve to be crushed by the strong. That’s just how the world is.

 

I want to die, often. But I know I must suffer my punishment.  Suicide would be an easy way out. At the same time, I dread any pain that would come with death, and despite myself I have this perverse desire to live…I don’t even know why. What hope do I have here? Perhaps I _am_ a masochist. Perhaps that’s why I want to live and keep on suffering. In which case perhaps I should kill myself, deny myself this pleasure. Although as far as I can tell, the pleasure, if there is any, is buried deep.

What they did isn’t unique to me. If I was a great agent, I should’ve thought of a way out of it, even if it was death (is death always a cop-out? Was it somehow heroic to choose life, even with what happened, even if it meant learning I was this craven thing?). If I was the dominant person I thought I was, I should not have felt any pleasure at pain, humiliation. But if I’m focusing on strict biological functions, I know I’m neither a masochist nor a homosexual. I know that it was natural for it to hurt. And natural for there to be a certain amount of pleasure, especially with…what they did. At first, anyway. Eventually, all I knew was pain and all I could think was wanting to make it stop. If I’d had enough of a mind in that moment, I would’ve begged them to kill me rather than keep going. I’ve always been able to endure pain, but I’ve never enjoyed it.

I can’t feel shame for what was natural. I know for a fact that I’m not attracted to men, though I’ve had many men attracted to me. I don’t have to worry about my sexual identity. At the same time, I can’t totally shake this feeling. That’s another thing that’s so horrible about this. I can’t control my feelings anymore. I can’t make them appear and disappear at whim. I don’t know myself—it’s all nebulous. I think, therefore I am—at the moment. My ability to adapt to unpredictable situations has been shattered. I can’t re-gather it. I have no foundation to stand on anymore. What can I do if I can’t even know who I am?

I know one thing. I’m weak. I deserve all the pain and shame that I feel daily. Hourly. Minutely.

There is nothing I can do but curl up against the wall and pretend the world does not exist. But that only works for so long and then the feelings return with a vengeance. I can scream and cry. I can hold my emotions in. I can watch TV and numb the pain. But those things only work for so long too.

I need something more powerful. Like a drug. Or physical pain. I could cut myself, give myself more punishment—punishment for feeling this pleasure-pain that I must feel to even consider doing something like that.

Perhaps I can get my hands on some drugs the next time the doctor comes in….

The other alternative is to stop feeling this pain altogether. And that would mean erasing the past, which isn’t possible.

I’ve got a high tolerance for alcohol. But enough of it would numb the pain….I deserve to get hungover just for thinking about drowning my sorrows. Idiot! Run and hide in the shadows. Disgusting. Just stop being. Stop. STOP! STOP THIS STOP THIS STOP THIS help

I can’t—

I can’t do this anymore—

I gasp for air. Panic seizes my chest, clamping down on it. I writhe on the bed, grasping the covers, screaming into the bedspread.

The dark pain rips me on the way out. I cough, choking on air as thick as blood.

Their faces loom in front of me in the darkness like photographic negatives, silver against black. Their eyes black, empty. Leering.

_Oh how good he was! laughs Tattoo, his blond hair slung over his face, sweaty. I lie there crumpled on the floor, swathed in pain, blood pooling beneath my cheek_

I thrash onto my back, letting light pour over my face, dispelling the images but the feelings still cling to me, spreading a dark film over the light.

The ceiling, white, blank. My feelings paint raw horror across its canvas and I can’t take it—can’t take the emptiness of it—I thrash back into darkness but the men take me again and I choke, sobbing—tears drenching the fabric beneath my cheeks- I’m there but also here somehow and I can’t take it, I’m being torn apart, there’s nothing left for me here but I can’t escape it—nowhere, no relief, no release—

 _Pathetic!_ says a voice, in large, emblazoned letters. _Of course you deserve what happened to you, look at you, writhing like a worm—get up, do something, be the Great Agent you once were—but no, you can’t do that can you, you’re nothing—go find some more men to rape you.That’s all you’re good for._ The voice laughs.

 The harsh sound of the laugh ripples from my throat as if I'm a haunted thing

I flee from it knowing that fear is wrong but not caring in that moment

Slamming against the wall—welcome pain—oh! Solution perhaps is more pain—

Blindly I get up—barely realizing I’m on my feet, or even capable of it—I’m in the bathroom and there’s a razor in there and I slide it across the top of my hand. Bright ribbons of pain--and nothing else. Relief—blessed relief for a moment. This is more weakness yes but I need it. I need some sort of drug or I’ll go mad—

Laughter bubbles in me again. I’m already mad. Add that to the list of weaknesses. What’s another?

Slash—burn. Ah! More pain. Blood trickles over my hand to drip on the floor. Yes.

At the same time, panic rises inside me. What am I doing?

 Don’t worry, you’re not going to die from this. Just—feel.

Another slide across my hand, near my wrist. More slashes. Faster, almost a frenzy. Blood flies, sprinkling over the sink and onto the wall and the floor. An orgy of blood. My blood. I deserve this. Up my arm. Deeper. Harder. Yes. This. More. I slide it hard like peeling potatoes and a swath of skin slicks off, dripping blood. It hangs for a second and then I let it drop, my stomach turns with horror and fascination.

Blood wells up from the wound, little beads of red coating the peeled skin. A word intrudes: Infection. I dare not do more. What have I done? Mutilating myself….I drop the razor and it clatters to the floor. I need to bandage it but I stand there in a stupor, knowing I need to stop the blood but unable to move.

That’s when the door opens and _she_ walks in.

 


	8. Chapter 8

“What have you done!” she says, horror in her voice.

I back up against the sink, fear filling me, even though she’s never hurt me, though she certainly could. I gingerly clutch my arm, blood dripping over my uncut hand.

“I—I’m sorry! I—“ My voice trails off lamely.

“Gray—“ Sorrow roughens her voice and my fear subsides—she’s not going to attack me. Though the panic is always present in close quarters, no matter who it is—worse with men.

She steps forward, reaching out for my hand. I lift it slightly. She inspects it, and then she looks up at me with her brown eyes. “Gray—were you going to commit suicide?”

I have to think for a second. I shake my head.

“What were you doing then?” Her voice is sharp, accusatory, and I flinch, though I detect an undercurrent of mercy, the kindness she carries beneath her professional exterior.

“I—I don’t know.”

“Well, we’d better get you fixed up.” She puts her hand on my shoulder and guides me to the bed. I sit there, awkward and dull and half-numb. Numbness—that’s good at least.

I hold my arm and she grabs a first-aid kit out of the bathroom. She takes a damp cloth and presses it gently to the wounds; the blood from the cuts makes dots in the shape of lines. I look at it, detached and fascinated at the pattern. Then she dabs at it and I gasp with pain. She looks at me, lips pursed, then swaths gauze over the shallow wounds.

“They’re not deep at least,” she says. “I think you need to talk to someone about this.”

“No!” I’ve had enough of shrinks. I don’t want one now, anyway. “I can talk to you.”

Her brow furrows but she sits back against the bed, her hand on the covers, her head tilted slightly as if to invite my words. “I’m no psychiatrist but I can listen.”

My mind freezes, like it’s been prone to do. She looks expectant though so I try to fill the silence. The words come first, then the thoughts, then the feelings.

“I hurt myself.”

“Why?”

“Because…because I need punishment.”

“For what?”

“For…letting it happen.”

“You mean—Gray, there’s nothing you could’ve done.”

“I could’ve fought harder.”

“You were injured. There were two of them—both larger than you.”

I flinch at the image her words conjure up. My leg barely able to keep me on my feet, the men leering down at me, appraising me as if I were a piece of merchandise to be bought—or stolen—

 “I’ve taken men larger than they were. When I was more injured. If I was the great agent I used to be, I should’ve acted the same that time. Instead, I was afraid they’d hurt me. Ha!” I laugh at the irony.

“It’s only natural to be afraid.”

“Not for me. I’m not like normal people. Or—I thought I wasn’t. When it came down to it—trapped with them, I collapsed into a quivering wreck. If I’d known what would happen, I should’ve fought harder. I should’ve made them kill me instead of—“ I choke at the thought—no matter how often the images and feelings invaded my mind, I never got used to them. They always shattered me.

 “You aren’t better off dead, Gray.”

“No? What kind of a life is this?” I sweep my hand around the room, then lay it on my arm over the bandage. 

“It’s life, at least. In death, there is nothing. No hope to change, experience things.”

“I don’t see how there’s anything left for me.”

Her eyes darken. “I have been there. Not to this extent, but…after Iran, it took a long time for me to see any worth in living again.

“Gray, I can’t imagine what you’re going through. But even if you can’t see it now, you will be able to put this pain in the past.”

“In prison—or in the CIA detention center. Yes, I see a lot of potential there.”

She nods, as if to acknowledge my point. “That isn’t much of a future, I know. But…if there is any hope, killing yourself won’t help you find it.”

“I probably would be better off dead. But my best option is to live—because that’s the best way for me to be punished. I deserve anything I can get. If I weren’t a coward, I’d’ve gone a lot further than this.” I squeeze my arm, pain lancing through it, blood seeping through the bandage to dampen my fingers.

“You shouldn’t hurt yourself.”

“No? I need some sort of punishment for being as weak as I was. I need something to distract me from seeing _them_ over and over and over—“ I lean my head in my hand, feeling sick. A creak of the bed, a rustle of covers. A hand lays gently on my back. I flinch a little, but at the same time warmth flushes through me at the human contact. A touch meant, not to hurt, but to comfort. How can such a thing be? I am almost suspicious it’s a trick, except I know by now Tasha doesn’t play mind-games, not like other agents I’ve been in contact with here who taunt me, deride me. Still, it always mystifies me—how can she treat me with anything other than contempt? Especially since I hurt the man she still loves, Jason, multiple times. She should want to hurt me just as much as Vivian—a chill ripples through me at the name—the one who orchestrated my...assault.

I look up again. “But if hurting myself distracts me from my thoughts, perhaps it’s not a punishment after all. I should just—keep thinking, holed up here, doing nothing—oh how I want something to dull the pain! Drugs, alcohol—this is all I could think of at the moment.” I lift my arm, giving a harsh laugh. I let my arm drop, relishing the pain, but at the same time knowing I shouldn’t. “If I wasn’t a coward, I wouldn’t resort to that kind of thing—but I don’t know how I can take this. If I don’t distract myself, I’ll go crazy. Maybe I already am.”

“Anyone would feel like that in your situation.” She lays her hand on my uninjured arm.

“But I’m not anyone!” I snap. To her credit, she doesn’t pull back, though she does look a bit alarmed. “I used to be extraordinary. Until…”

“You _are_ extraordinary. That’s why you can’t handle this. Because you think you should be able to. But you’re not superhuman. You’re not a god. Everyone fails, even you. This isn’t something you can just shrug off, rise above. No one would be able to. In that way, you’re normal.”

I nod, absorbing her words. Perhaps she’s right. She probably is. At the same time, even though I want to believe it, part of me resists. I can’t be what I thought I was, not after…all that I felt. The horrible thoughts that seize me daily. The shame that digs itself into me, deeper than any cut.

“I should’ve fought harder,” I say quietly. “If I’d have known…but maybe I did know. Maybe part of me wanted it. That’s what I should be punished for. For fooling myself into thinking I was something else when really—maybe I wanted the pain. Like this.” I tap my arm. “Maybe it’s just an excuse to feel pleasure. Maybe I wanted to get captured, wanted the men to take me, hurt me—maybe not resisting enough was consent. And I’m this thing I despise, and I can’t take it, and that’s where all this…angst comes from. I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to be a…”I can’t bring myself to say the words.

She withdraws her hand; of course she feels disgust for me. She regards me for a moment and I can’t help but drop my gaze. Study the patterns on the messy covers. Inane tan-pink flowers, dull, sloppily-rendered roses, indifferent, bland things that match this room, and mirror my life in it.

“Gray,” she says finally, and my heart jumps, filling me with dread at her words, “have you had any inkling that you felt like this before? Have you ever enjoyed pain?”

I shake my head. “But—maybe this brought it out. It was latent and—“

“No, I don’t think it works like that.”

“But…perhaps…I have feelings for…men, and I –it was an excuse to feel it. I wanted it and so—“

“You let them gang-rape you? No. Unless you had feelings for men before, this wouldn’t bring it out.”

I shake my head slowly, not quite convinced, despite the fact that my rational side—what’s left of it—agrees with her. “But…what…I felt….” I can’t bring myself to tell her the details, though I should punish myself with the shame of it. 

She leans forward, her arms crossed. “That doesn’t matter. I mean, what you feel can…betray you. Especially when it’s forced on you. A purely physical reaction is different than an emotional one. What did you feel—emotionally—when it was happening?”

I want to curl up into a ball, shut out the world. “I felt…” A tear trickles down my cheek. “Terror. I couldn’t control—I—“ A shudder shakes me. I take a shaky breath, a sob trapped in my chest, aching.

She lays her hand on my back, and after the first shock that any touch gives me, I yield to it and she runs her palm down over my back in a soothing rhythm. I can breathe again, and the trapped sob doesn’t ache so terribly.

“When …it happened to me,” she says, “even though he didn’t go as far as he wanted, I couldn’t help how my body reacted. I tried to deny it for a long time afterwards—but then the shame and confusion got too much for me and I started drinking—too much. Staying out late. Even…getting into undesirable relationships. It took a toll on my job. Fortunately my superiors took notice and sent me back to my therapist. When I finally got to the root of what was going on, she told me that you can’t help how your body reacts. Sometimes the fear smothers every other reaction, and sometimes something else breaks through in spite of yourself. Rape is different than another violent attack—it comes with a combination of its own unique problems. Sexuality is a very sensitive, deep part of who we are. When it’s attacked, a whole mess of complex issues can result. But the act itself is deceptively simple. You are touched at one point of your body—it reacts. It’s based in the most primitive part of you, the ‘appetite’ of Plato…the need, and the satisfaction of it. If you’re touched in a certain way, there’s nothing your conscious mind can do about it. The part that reacts instinctively is not even connected to consciousness. You can’t blame yourself, Gray. I know the shame of it…and you can’t really help that. But if you try to hold onto the fact that it’s not your fault, eventually you’ll come to believe it. I did. There is hope, Gray. At least, hope to get over the worst of this.”

I nod. Accepting her comfort, knowing she’s right, part of me not quite ready to believe that I’m not as horribly despicable as I feel.

I sit there and try to absorb what she told me, just breathing, still half in shock from earlier, my arm lying on my thigh, inert, as if it’s separate from my body. I’ve felt completely detached from my body before; I kind of wish that feeling would return….but I can’t deny that her touch feels good. In a completely platonic way, a fact for which I’m grateful.

We sit in silence for a while, and all I hear is the hum of the air conditioning and my own breathing. The pain comes back with a vengeance—burns raging up and down my arm. I clutch my arm instinctively to my chest.

“I’ll get you some painkiller,” she says, and leaves the room. With the withdrawal of her touch, I feel desolate, alone with the constant barrage of thoughts. They roar through my mind, drowning out the physical pain—I can’t take this—

Despite myself I wrench my arm, twisting the damaged skin, and pain rips through me. A cry escapes my lips.

_No, I can’t do this…I don't need to....the painkiller will help numb my thoughts…._

One thing I can’t face is that I may be going back to the CIA prison. If they decide not to give me a trial, they’ll send me back, or make me work for them. I don’t see how I can be an agent again, in any kind of competent capacity. 

Before panic can seize me I shut out those thoughts. At least I can pretend that the horror of the past and the inanity of the present is all I have to deal with. I don’t know what the future holds, so—blessedly—I have the option of not looking at it directly. For now.

Tasha returns and the room brightens slightly with her presence. She spills some white pills into my palm—morphine—and I drop them into my mouth. She lifts a glass to my lips and carefully tips it and I sip ice water, then swallow.

I feel better already, though I know the meds can’t have taken effect yet.

Tasha sits down on the bed. “I’m not sure if I should tell you this, but the reason I came today is because…they’ve made a decision. You have a right to know.”

My body tenses. “What—have—they—“

She sighs, her eyes apologetic. “They’re canceling your trial. They want you to work for them.”


	9. Chapter 9

Shock bursts through me. For a moment, I can’t think. My mind is blank, as if a jolt of electricity has wiped my memory clean.

“I’m sorry, Gray. I told them you’re in no shape for a mission. But they don’t see you as a human being, just as an asset. One that murdered one of their own. So they think that gives them the right to treat you like a slave.”

That word slams into me. I was almost a slave in Paraguay on my last mission; I only escaped thanks to Jason, who sacrificed himself for me. I still can’t get my head around that—and if he’d ended up lost to slavery, I might’ve felt guilty. As it is, I try to ignore it. What can one do with such an incomprehensible gift?

But even though I escaped, it broke me all over again. What I saw in Ramon’s compound—it was all I could do to hold myself together, keep pretending to be on his side. All the while I was terrified he’d find out and make me a slave—which eventually happened. And the things he forced me to do to the slaves as I was undercover….the things that I allowed others to do—it brought back the memories of what those men did to me. It made me feel sick. I had to excuse myself—I had to let it go on, because I couldn’t stand to watch. I had to risk my own freedom, risk appearing weak, just so I could function.

And then afterwards, I couldn’t hold it together anymore. I snapped right back to where I was before Ramon. I hadn’t recovered, I’d just—put on a mask. Tried to be what I used to be. But that mission proved I couldn’t just go back to the way things were before. I couldn’t just be a great agent again. And now I wouldn’t even be able to manufacture a mask. But if I don’t cooperate, I’ll go back to the CIA detention center. Vivian will send in her revenge proxies. And I’ll be back in the nightmare I’ve been trying to crawl out of.

“I can’t go back.” 

“You don’t have to go back. Not if you work for us.”

“I won’t be able to. I’ll just fall apart and they’ll give me back to the CIA anyway—“ Panic rises in my chest. I can’t quite comprehend what Tasha’s news means yet, but when I do something inside me will explode.

“I’m sorry. I wish there was something I could do. But I was really your only advocate. The NSA wants to use you as long as you’re useful. The Security Council thinks you’ve forfeited your rights by being a criminal. The NSA sometimes has to do things borderline illegal, but this has crossed the line. To force you with a threat of–what Vivian did, it’s unconscionable. No matter what you did, you should have a fair trial. But this is a gray area because you’re a freelance agent. You’re not on any records, so it’s easy to make you disappear.

“I told them that, as an American citizen, you have rights. When appeals to justice didn’t work, I told them you’re in no shape to do this. But they said that you did it before, you can do it again. No matter what it takes, until you’re not useful anymore.”

“Then what?”

“I’m—not sure.”

“They’ll probably give me back to the CIA.”

“They might. I’ll fight them on that, but there’s only so much I can do.”

I look at her, not able to comprehend why she’s helping me. Her dark hair, pulled back, complements her charcoal suit. She always looks professional, not a hair out of place. I always admire her for that. She has a straight, almost military bearing and always conducts herself in a firm, confident manner, efficient, practical. She seems to have many of the qualities that make a good agent. Still, her dark eyes sometimes betray her. They’re soulful, expressive, and sometimes they can’t hide what she’s feeling. Perhaps she can hide them when she tries more; to be an agent, you have to be able to hide what you feel. That means that she allows herself to be vulnerable with me. Another incomprehensible thing.

“Thank you. For helping me,” I say, unable to keep the mystification out of my voice. I’m disappointed her efforts didn’t help, but I can’t blame her. She’s only one person. I shouldn’t even have that many to defend me.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t help you.”

“That’s okay. You did—more than you should have. You’re free now, anyway. You don’t have to associate with me anymore.” I’m still unclear as to why she did in the first place.

“On the contrary. I have one piece of good news.  They want me to be your handler.”

“They—what?”

“Since I know you, and I’ve been your handler before, I’m the best person for the job. I can tell what is too much for you. I’ll be a barrier between you and our superiors. There’s no telling what another agent would do in my place; he certainly wouldn’t be sympathetic with what happened to you. I won’t be the one choosing the missions, but I do have some influence with the directorate, as a senior agent with over twenty years of experience. They’ll have to listen to me when it comes to missions, if not with matters of policy.”

Some of the tension seeps out of me. I lean back, unclenching my fists, which were digging into my palms. I take a deep breath.

“Maybe with you, I’ll be able to do it. I know one thing, I couldn’t do it without you.”

She looks at me strangely for a moment, then nods. “I don’t want the mission to implode as soon as it starts. And I don’t want you to go back into those horrific circumstances. I’ll do everything in my power to make this work.”

I lift my legs up onto the bed and huddle there, my arms wrapped over my knees. As horrible as the tension is, I can’t let myself feel relief. If I let go, I’ll fall apart. My body starts to tremble. No—I can’t fall apart, if I do they’ll take me back—I have to be able to go on missions—I want to be myself again, or try to. I want to have a chance. I can’t go back into darkness. The shaking overtakes me and I lay down, unable to stop it. Chills race up and down my skin. I clutch the covers, trying in vain to find something to hold onto. But the bed feels like it’ll collapse beneath me, turn into water, toss me out to sea—

I won’t be able to do this after all. After all Tasha’s done for me. Vivian will take me back and laugh as the prisoners violate me—I’ll be nothing, just an object for others’ pleasure and domination—

A warm hand lays on my shoulder. Rubbing up and down gently. Like someone used to do long ago…my mother…when I had fallen and cried. So weak I’d been then—and now I was as weak as a five-year-old. Still, I welcome her touch. Somehow it pours strength into me. The shivers subside. I lay still, my face against the covers, just breathing. Her hand, still now, press against my shoulder, holding me up, holding me together—the strength I need.

“You can do this, Gray,” she says, somehow confidence in her voice, confidence in me.

_I can, as long as you’re with me._

Part of me deplores the weakness of having to rely on another. But what choice do I have? It’s this or go back to something infinitely worse. I realize I want to be an agent again. That’s the drug I need; anything else is just a poor substitute. It’s a part of my soul; without it, I’m just a shadow of a man. With Tasha’s strength beside me, I can perhaps gain some semblance of what I used to be. I don’t have much hope I can shake this version of myself completely, but at least there’s a chance I can have some pride in who I am again, rather than despising every part of myself.  

I can at least try. What do I have to lose?

I struggle to sit up. She withdraws her hand but I’m able to sit on my own at least. I’ll have to do a lot more than that….Tears dampen my face; I hadn’t even realized I’d been crying. Shame fills me but Tasha’s seen me at my worst. She’ll have to know about all of that so she can help me.

Perhaps I’ll always need her. But perhaps, someday…

No, I dare not even go there. I can’t even think about escaping, not until I’ve recovered. But maybe she is right—I’ll be better someday. Maybe even become who I once was, without all this darkness to drag me down. And then—

We will see.


	10. Chapter 10

I was walking in the jungle of Paraguay. Ramon was there, paternal and larger-than-life like always. He laid his hand on my shoulder, showing me his plantations. Slaves worked there, backs breaking under heavy loads, sweating under the sun.   
“See this?” said Ramon. “All this could be yours. As long as you know how to put the slaves in their place.”  
A woman stood in the field, lashing a whip into a man’s back. She had auburn hair that glinted copper under the sun, her eyes fierce with bloodlust.   
Vivian.   
I froze.   
She handed the whip to me.   
The slave turned—it was Jason, looking as he had when I’d whipped him in the shed, his eyes full of suffering.   
“Now whip him,” said Ramon.   
I couldn’t move. Somehow I knew that if I whipped him, I’d hurt myself too.   
“Very well.”   
The whip appeared in Ramon’s hand.   
The whip slashed into my back, shredding my clothes. Vivian’s harsh laugh echoed across the field. The next blow slammed me into the dirt, tearing into me, blood pouring over my split skin.   
I screamed.   
I jerked awake, gasping for breath. Panic seized my mind—I was back in the cell—  
But no. It was a large, rich room with luxurious furnishings, a mahogany desk, plush chairs.   
I lay back against the pillows, calming my churning breaths, my heart thudding against my chest.   
Beyond the scarlet curtains peeked a patch of rain-soaked landscape, a broad field, hints of garden and forest beyond the rolling hills.   
Relief washed over me. This palace might seem dreamlike, but it was real. Reality, somehow, was no longer agony and humiliation. I had a mission again, for the first time since–  
I jumped out of bed, grabbed the clothes I’d laid out the night before. Fear hit me; it didn’t matter how irrational it was, lately I always felt as if someone might burst in and see me before I was dressed. They’d see my scars, and the broken body I was once proud of.   
Quickly, despite the aches in my muscles, I pulled the gray long-sleeved shirt over my head, the pants over the most shameful parts of me. In the bathroom, I glanced in the mirror at the haggard face I barely knew, dark circles under his eyes, his once tanned skin pale, the cheekbones jutting painfully, the eyes hollow and haunted.   
_You’re the one who let yourself be raped_ , I told myself like I had a hundred times. Pain sliced through my arm. I realized my fingernails were digging into the half-healed, self-inflicted wound. Blood spreading through my sleeve.   
Idiot! Now I’d have to toss out another shirt. Pretty soon I’d run out of shirts, and everyone would laugh at my scars–  
The dream flashed across my mind. Panic built in my chest. I couldn’t be in here anymore. Someone would come in, trap me—hurt me—  
I ran for the door—yanked it open, revealing a hallway with golden wallpaper. Not a man in sight.   
_Stop being paranoid. Pull yourself together. If you can’t, you don’t deserve this mission.  
There must be some part of you that’s not pathetic. Prove it. Become who you were.   
Can I? was I ever that person—Gray—or was he just a façade, a veneer of strength?_   
_I cannot go back—even though I probably deserve it. So I have to at least try.  
I have to become Gray again  
Or someone harder, stronger. Someone with no weaknesses, more ruthless—  
Do I have that in me?   
Build myself from the ground up if I have to._   
I yanked on a different shirt. A white one, short-sleeved, that would display my scars.   
They were nothing to be ashamed of. I could have gotten them on a mission instead of from being tortured, helpless. _I have nothing to be afraid of._   
Confidence throbbed through my veins. I stepped out the door.   
A cool draft hit me. Chills flashed across my skin. I felt exposed. My hand clutched my arm, pain shooting through it.   
_I’m the kind of person who can’t stand a bit of stress and cuts himself, risks infection, for the lack of any other drug or distraction when the numbness eludes him._   
I considered going back in, but dreams lingered there like shadows and I’d feel no safer trapped than exposed. I walked down the hallway, seeking confidence or numbness or pain.   
_I am a great agent_ , said a voice inside me, without conviction.   
_If not—who am I kidding—but I have to be somehow, or go back to the hell I deserve._  
A door swung open. A body thumped into me.  
A handsome noble face, generous black curls, an impish smile.   
“Why, hello!” Deep, fathomless dark eyes. Leering, lusting for me—  
Or had I imagined it? _Don’t panic—he’ll see your fear—_  
Pain bit into my arm; he was holding it where it was cut.   
“Is something wrong?”  
“Hurt—“ I managed to gasp out.   
“Oh! Sorry.” He dropped my arm.   
I ran. Out, out into the rain, the fragrance of the garden luring me, perhaps into another trap.   
I tore through flowering bushes, thorns that scratched my face, rows of roses, till I reached an open building. A gazebo. I grasped the rail along the edge, catching my breath in the middle of a vast, dim paradise.   
_I don’t deserve this beauty. I deserve pain_  
Deserve to go back  
That boy wouldn’t have hurt me.   
I’m sick. impossibly weak.   
Ha! This, be an agent? It deserves to be kicked, trampled on, torn apart—  
I dragged my fingernails along my skin, opening new cuts, ripping open the old ones. The bloody bandage fluttered to the damp floor.   
Drops of blood mingled with rain.


	11. Chapter 11

 

I need to be an agent. Any other addiction is a poor substitute.

I must not go back. That’s not an option. I have to think of myself as worthy—even if I’m not. That I’m worth not going back. That I don’t need punishment for what I let them do to me.

I’m not a sadist. Masochist perhaps. A masochist is a sadist to himself… It’s all twisted up inside of me. I must get rid of it. Ignore it. I have to, in order to do this mission. Even if it means putting on another persona—till I grow into his skin, become another better man.

 Perhaps I should just pick a different alias. I will never be the Gray I was. I will either fail—become nothing—or succeed better than before. Become an even greater agent in spite of this. I can’t let it win. Can’t let _her_ win. I have to either tear it out of me—impossible without uprooting all that I am—or ignore it, shove it down into darkness where it belongs. Don’t let it affect me. That’s the best revenge. To ignore them. _She_ is irrelevant. Just a phantom from a nightmare.

I will resist self-harm, because it will hurt my chances to succeed. Stop these self-mutilating thoughts, even if they’re true, because they’ll only drag me down. Because I want to be an agent. I want to live, and that’s the only way I can live.

I will use these companions of mine as a means to an end. Lean on their strength till I can walk on my own. Then, I will discard them too. I will let nothing in. I will build armor that blocks all pain. I will be an invincible machine, a force of nature, to which pain is irrelevant. I will shed what shreds of humanity I have left and all weakness with it.

I let this body be relevant—it’s not. The only thing that matters is performing each mission to the best of my ability. That is who I am.

I won’t let it happen again. Won’t put myself in such a situation. But then—that’s a weakness too. I just have to disregard any pain and humiliation. It’s only humiliating if I let it be. Perhaps I need to let this pain become scar tissue, numb the nerve endings.

Perhaps… it’s a good thing this happened. I can crush my last weakness. I’m only unworthy to succeed if I don’t overcome this.


End file.
